Hallucinations
by LilTigre
Summary: PostDoC, no spoilers. A case of the flu forces Reeve and Vincent to face their fears. Written for the makoreactor 100 theme challenge.


"Open up."

I glare at him as best I can. He just raises an eyebrow.

"I said open up."

I shoot him the middle finger. It doesn't do much other than make him scowl.

"It's going in one end or another, Reeve, so pick one before I do."

"Asshole." I open my mouth and he pops the thermometer under my tongue. It tastes like rubbing alcohol. I grimace, and he smirks at me.

I hate being sick. I rarely catch colds, much less anything worse, so when Yuffie was kind enough to spread the Wutai flu all over WRO headquarters, I figured I'd be spared the brunt of her infectious assault. Everyone else kept falling under- first Barret and Marlene, then Cloud, and Cid, and Tifa- and I felt like a million gil.

It wasn't until after everyone else got over the damn stuff that I got sick. Naturally.

The truly disgusting part of this would be my self-anointed nursemaid, who's currently staring at me like a particularly interesting insect on display. Vincent just doesn't get sick. Ever. When Marlene had the stomach flu and puked on him? Nothing. Raw fish for dinner? Everyone else got food poisoning; he simply remarked that it would've been better cooked. And the flu? Hell, Yuffie sneezed in his face last week- I think he was packing her to the infirmary- and he still doesn't have so much as a sniffle.

Life's just not fair.

There's a knock on the door downstairs; he raises up from his chair to answer it. "Don't move," he scolds before going downstairs. I can barely raise my head up off the pillow without getting sick; I'm not about to try anything. Besides, last time I tried to avoid him he stuck a thermometer where the sun doesn't shine. I'd rather not go through that embarassing little escapade again. You know, for someone supposedly humorless and cold, he has a downright evil sense of humor.

I can hear voices from down below; Tifa and Yuffie, from the sounds of it. They're giggling. That scares me. Anything those two find mutually amusing is destined to be nothing but trouble. I can hear Vincent's low voice, followed by a scream of laughter from the girls, and I decide I really do not want to know what's going on down there.

By the time the girls leave, the thermometer's been in my mouth long enough to take my temperature three times over. I can feel fine beads of sweat popping up on my brow. Did Vincent turn the heater on? I was cold before, but now I feel like I'm being roasted alive. I try to kick the bedsheets off with little success. Holy, am I really that weak?

"Open." I didn't even notice Vincent coming back into the room. He rests the back of his claw against my forehead as he takes out the thermometer; the metal feels deliciously cool on my skin. His porcelain features draw up into a scowl as he looks it over. He glances from it to me, drawing those cold metal-encased fingers over my cheek and down to my jugular. My pulse throbs; I can hear it thumping away. "Nn. This isn't good."

"What?" My voice is thin and shaky to my own ears. He frowns even more deeply, his eyes flashing with concern from under that mop of unruly hair.

"Your fever's gone up again." He takes a tissue and dabs the sweat from my face, then straightens up and walks into the bathroom. "Stay put. I'll be right back."

Stay put . . . ? Where does he think I'm going to go?

A few minutes later, he reappears wearing nothing but his gauntlet and a pair of boxers, a large metal tub under one arm and a pile of towels in the other. He's pulled his hair back into a loose ponytail, with thin strands sticking out wildly. I can see him clearly now without the clothing there to hide behind. The light smattering of faint freckles across his cheeks; the frown lines at the corners of his lips; the thick network of scars that runs the length of his body; even the serial numbers and barcodes permanently inked on his skin, marking him as one of Hojo's experimental subjects- all of it is bared open to me.

He flushes slightly and I realize I'm gaping at him like an idiot. It's not like I've never seen him undressed before. That's a bit hard to avoid when the house you own has one working shower for two people, and even harder to avoid when your houseguest is also your lover. Even with all that, I still don't see him like this often; he thinks the scars make him hideous.

I think they make him beautiful.

- and I just said that last bit out loud. He flushes ever more deeply. Biting his lower lip, he drops the towels and touches my forehead with his good hand. "It's still going up. Got to get you out of these clothes." Vincent sits down beside me and lifts me into a sitting position; I clutch at him as the world begins to spin. "Easy," he says, his cold claw splayed against my back. "I've got you."

"Huh?" He's undressing me like one would a baby, unbuttoning my pajama top and gently pulling it off one arm at a time. My clothes are sticky and drenched in sweat; the air doesn't feel much cooler even after getting the shirt off. He lays me back down and pulls the sheets off before tackling my pants. "H- hey, what're you-"

"Hush," he says, his voice gentle yet firm. I can't do much more than grumble as he pulls off my pajama bottoms and boxers in short order, leaving me stark naked. He tosses them aside and leans over the bed, splashing in the tub. "We have to get that fever down."

I let out a sigh of relief as he lays a cold, wet rag over my forehead; the water feels divine, and I can't help but wonder why it isn't boiling off my skin yet. The chill helps keep the room from swaying so much. He begins wiping my face with a dripping wet sponge, running it over my neck and chest in tender, gentle strokes. "Mmm. Vincent?"

"Yes, Reeve?" He gives me a faint smile, taking my hand in his metal one as he dips the sponge back in the water. I can faintly smell chamomile and lavender and I can't help but be reminded of my childhood. He strokes my cheek before running the cool sponge over my stomach. "Is this uncomfortable?"

"No," I murmur, squeezing his hand. Cool water runs over my sides and down my arms. I can just barely hear the splash of water over my own raspy breathing. He's got an expert bedside manner; I suppose he knows from his own experiences how not to treat a sick person. The cold sponge presses into the inside of my thigh, just above one of the major pulse points, before running back up my torso. The floral scents and the feel of cool relief are making me drowsy; I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open. "It's. . . thank you."

He brushes his lips against my forehead. Worry haunts his crimson eyes, belying his true feelings from behind the hopeful smile. My eyes slide shut as he resumes the sponge bath. "Go to sleep, Reeve."

"May the Lifestream rise to greet you when you meet your darkest hour-"

Everything after that seems unreal, like I'm watching an old movie reel that's been cut up and spliced back together. I can vaguely remember being cradled against something firm, and the familiar taste of warm chocobo broth being ladled into my mouth. I can remember hearing hushed murmurs around me, and seeing flashes of familiar faces coming in and out of my field of vision- but I can't remember what was being said or who the people were.

"May the Planet keep your memory and all your dreams alive-"

There's a gap in the film, and then I can remember feeling a round circle of something cold being pressed against my chest and back, and someone encouraging me to breathe deeply. I remember the taste of something vile being poured down my throat, and the subsequent strangled cursing; Cid's foul mouth must be rubbing off on me. I can remember a green light- the glow of materia, I think- and then another break in my memory.

"May the Ancients bless your spirit with their love and understanding-"

These things and more swirl past me: for a moment, my skin feels as if it's on fire, before cool water extinguishes the blaze; another moment, and I feel something warm wrap itself around my shoulders as the air turns to ice; flash forward, and I'm being carried like an infant down the stairs, watching the world spin around me in a dizzying ballet. I can hear my own voice, thin and reedy, muttering about fortunes told that never came true, and of worlds that never were except in my dreams. Voices echo through the aether, edged with colors: red for anger; violet for worry; blue for sadness. I can see the voices and hear the visions as they dance around my fevered brain. Each moment blends into the next until I can no longer tell where the world starts and I end.

"I will send all my love with you, to guide and lead the way-"

In each moment, however, there are two things that stand out clear as the purest crystal- the low humming of an old Kalm lullaby, and the slow burning of crimson eyes.

"- until that final moment, when we may meet again."

The sun is shining when I wake up; I'm surprised to find myself in Vincent's bed instead of my own. I stretch slightly, flexing my toes under the blankets. He must have moved me at some point. Probably got my bed soaking wet with his sponge bath idea- honestly, why didn't he just stick me in the bathtub? It wouldn't have been as comfortable, but it would have made less work for him.

There's a sleepy sort of mumble across the way from me. I gingerly turn my head- at least the world's stopped spinning- and look over; I can't help but grin a bit. I can see Vincent's silhouette sprawled out in a chair, his faintly glowing eyes staring off into space. There's a half-eaten sandwich on the table next to him that looks like it's been sitting out for a week; his gauntlet is next to it, the tips of the fingers tarnished and dull. A collection of pill bottles is spilled over the floor, along with a couple of orbs of materia. My name's typed neatly across the label of one of the bottles. Strange; I don't remember taking any medicine.

I feel warm eyes on me and turn my head; Vincent's sitting there staring at me, his face pensive and drawn. His eyes are so shadowed and swollen that they look bruised. Stringy black hair hangs limply about his shoulders, and I wonder when he brushed it last. "You look like shit," I rasp, managing a half-grin.

He gets up slowly and stumbles over, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting a hand to my forehead. "I could say the same about you," he murmurs. "Thirsty?"

My throat feels like it's stuck together; I manage to croak out a 'yes' before he helps me up into a half-sitting position. He lifts a glass of water to my lips, watching me intently. Holy, it feels good to drink something cool for a change. I take the glass away from him and finish it off. My arms feel weak afterwards, but the motion earns me an approving nod. "How long was I out?"

". . . eight days," he finally says. My eyes widen- it couldn't have been that long! He nods as if sensing my disbelief, turning his head away from me. A wavering memory floats past my mind's eye- a dark head bent over mine, the chill of something cold against my neck, and a soft voice pleading for me to wake up, to not leave him behind.  
"Your fever broke two days ago. You've been asleep since," Vincent continues. I watch him carefully; he's on the brink of exhaustion, and I wonder if he's had any sleep at all this whole time. He pauses, swallowing heavily. "For a while, the doctors thought . . . ." He stops and shakes his head. "I was. . . afraid."

I take his free hand in mine; it's faint, but I can feel it shaking. "I'm not going anywhere anytime soon," I murmur. I want to tell him that it'll never happen again, that I'll be hale and hearty forever- but I can't. One day I'll return to the Lifestream, and I'll have to leave him behind. This is what I read in his face and in those crimson eyes brimming with tears that he will never shed in public. We've never discussed it; I think we were both too afraid to. Now it's staring us both in the face, and we can't face it.

I open my mouth to say something- what, I don't know- when he covers it with his lips, putting his fear and relief and all that he can't speak out loud into one desperate kiss. He's breathless when he finally draws back; I put my hands on his shoulders and draw him closer, until his head is resting against my chest. My hands tangle themselves in his hair. He listens to my heart beating; I listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing; and we find a little bit of comfort without the need for words.

It isn't until Vincent brings me dinner later that evening that I remember something else. "Ah, may I ask you something?"

"Yes, Reeve?" He sets the tray next to my bed, waiting for me to tuck in before beginning to brush out his knotted hair.

"What were Tifa and Yuffie laughing about earlier?"

He pauses in mid-stroke, looking a bit confused, then a slow flush creeps into his cheeks. He leans over the nightstand and plucks a little bit of cloth off it before tossing it into my lap. it's a little white nurse's cap, complete with a red cross embroidered on the front and bobby pins to hold it in place. I nearly choke on my soup with laughter. "They said it was to 'help you feel better'," he continues, scowling.

"Well, their hearts were in the right place, anyway." I look it over for a second before tucking it under my pillow when he isn't looking. It may be too late to use it now, but you never know when someone might need a little TLC. 


End file.
